Most Memorable Meals

I have two categories of memorable meals: alone, and with people. I am extremely close to a few people – my family and my husband – and I enjoy their company to no end. Given the chance, I will always spend time with family over spending time alone. But I also have a healthy appetite for solitude. I don’t always enjoy my adventures alone, but I’ve had a lot of memorable experiences and meals in solitude.


Meals alone:

Thanksgiving 2003 – Alone in Eugene, Oregon. I couldn’t get out of work the night before, and I worked a full-time graveyard shift (11pm to 7am) in addition to being a full-time student. Long story short: I couldn’t make it home for Thanksgiving. So I made the family’s speciality – pinwheels (jalepenos and olives with cream cheese wrapped in a tortilla) – and bought a key lime pie from Marie Callender’s and a bottle of Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider (would have bought lots of alcohol but was only 20 at the time). I set the table in my one-bedroom apartment and pigged out on pie and pinwheels and cider. I did really miss my family, but as I ate, I wrote a list of things I’m thankful for. I ended up thoroughly enjoying that meal.

Halloween 2005 – Alone in Inverness, Scotland. After a cold day walking around the city, I stopped into a pub at lunch for some food and a couple pints of beer. I really should have brought a book. As I ate my bangers and mash, I pretended to be interested in the football game on the telly. A group of construction workers sat at a table not far from me. Fifteen minutes later, one of the guys came over to my table, and although I could barely understand his thick Scottish accent, I think he said something like, ‘What on earth are you doing here alone, and Jesus Christ, you look like the loneliest person on the planet.’ The workers ended up joining me at my table, and a twelve-hour drinking session began. It ended with a lock-in, which is where they keep a pub open after legal opening hours. It’s a wonderful tradition kept alive mainly in the North. You have to be invited to be involved in a lock-in. The window shades are pulled shut, the door is locked, and suddenly you are a tight-knit community. I think in Scotland, the authorities are more lax about legal serving times, because this lock-in did involve closed window shades, but then someone pulled out bagpipes and panpipes, and a woman with no teeth grabbed my hand, and then the whole pub was up and dancing in a circle, and then the procession of us wove our way outside, dancing in a circle on the cobblestone road, and then back inside for more music, dancing, drinking. It was probably the most magical night of my life.

Christmas Eve 2005 – Alone in Cologne, Germany. I spent a week in Germany by myself, and a problem with my pin number on my card meant I couldn’t take out cash. Not a problem, use it as debit or credit, right? Wrong. Germany, as a whole, doesn’t really accept cards. Everything is done in cash. So I had a week there, and after putting aside the money I would need to get back to the airport at the end of my trip, I had approximately €5 per day for food. That’s enough for approximately one crappy meal per day. Rather than being constantly hungry, I decided to alternate: no food one day, two meals the next. I spent most of my time hanging out at the Christmas markets. These markets, especially this one in the shadow of Dom Cathedral, were so magical I actually ended up not being terribly miserable. On Christmas Eve, I intended to go to the market and wander around, soaking up the festive atmosphere, and treating myself to a meal. When I got there, though, I was heartbroken to find that the Christmas markets don’t open on Christmas Eve. I wandered around the streets through falling snow, looking for anything open that sold food. I found a kebab shop and managed to point at something on the menu, and managed to pay for it. I went back to the hostel, drank a bottle of cold gluhwein (obtained from the train station a few days before, when I had yet to discover my money problems), and ate my kebab, which would have been disgusting if I hadn’t been starving. Another lonely moment.

April 2006 – Alone in Prague, Czech Republic. I arrived in the evening, and by the time I made it to my room I was so exhausted and stressed that there was no way I was going to go out into the city in search of food. I’d brought a can of refried beans with me. To this day I have no idea why I had it, or why I brought it. But in my weird room in a converted abandoned train station, with a gargoyle outside my window, I ate the can of refried beans, and it tasted magnificent. But I also kept thinking how sad it was, to be alone in Prague, eating a can of refried beans, and being grateful that there was a gargoyle there to keep me company. I can’t think of a time when I felt more alone. Although, I wasn’t particularly depressed about it – I would say I had a heightened awareness of my solitude.

And now for some stories that make me sound like less of a saddo!

Social meals:
July 15 2006 – Brighton, UK – Wedding dinner with Gill. We decided to let our guests know that we wouldn’t be having a traditional wedding in the sense where we pay for everything and get into debt. So everyone bought their own fish and chips on the beach, and our reception was at a pub where people bought their own drinks. Our one contribution was a case of champagne, which went far enough with our small wedding party that everyone could drink as much as they wanted and there was still more. Gill and I lasted the duration of the party, and by the time the last guest left at around 8pm, we were both drunk, and he was leaning on me and snoring. Actually, I found it thoroughly enjoyable to do and drink exactly what I wanted at my own wedding, and I don’t reget it for a moment. So I woke Gill up and told him we should try to find our way to our hotel, because I didn’t want him drooling on me anymore. He snapped awake and claimed to be sober. Obviously, he was full of shit, but I allowed him to escort me down the road, and we passed by the restaurant that was affiliated with our hotel. It was a Moroccan place called Mascara. At the door, we asked if they had room for two, and they said not a chance – you have to book a month in advance. I think at this point I pouted, and I swear, this is the only time I have ever almost cried to get what I want, but I got a little tear in my eye and quietly said, “But it’s our wedding night…” The host, bless him, took pity on us. He convinced a group of gay guys to let us squeeze on the end of their table. We were led through the restaurant and through a bead curtain, where we were squashed onto the end of a long, low table in the dimly lit backroom, right next to the kitchen. We could hear the kitchen staff and chef shouting to each other, and every time the door opened, waves of heat flowed over us. A vase of jasmine flowers on our table basked in the heat and gave off heavenly swirls of perfume with every movement in the air. A group of belly dancers giggled and adjusted each other’s beaded garments, preparing to emerge through the bead curtain into the main room of the restaurant for a performance. I can’t remember what I ordered, but I swear to this day, that even with my drunk, numb tastebuds it was the most delicious meal I have eaten in my life. Gill and I looked at each other a lot, but didn’t speak much during the meal. We didn’t need to.


Family Christmas Eve dinners. My momola wrote about this in her blog, but I have to mention it too. A hundred candles, my whole family, and our tradition of potato soup and tortellini soup. These are my all-time most comforting, peaceful, cherished memories, and it is the one family occasion that I am always, always sad about missing.

June 2006 – Eugene, Oregon – my graduation from University of Oregon. Pizza, a keg of beer, and tater tots. A few of my family members ended up barfing. Dad spilled beer on Momola’s head. I got my little brother drunk for the first time. It was the perfect graduation party.

Summer 2004 – Lunch with dad at New Oddesey, a new-age hippie café in Eugene. We were walking along the street and decided to stop in somewhere for a sandwich, and ended up here randomly. Dad is so not a hippie, and the guy serving… was. We were the only customers in there, and he talked about spirituality and crystals, and it took him about half an hour to make a smoothie and microwave a piece of vegan lasagne. He was stoned out of his mind. I felt so embarrassed about bringing my dad to a place so alien to him, but I think he found it kind of funny.

2004? Dinner with Momola at the Thai restaurant in Eugene. We ate downstairs in a lounge decorated with colourful umbrellas hanging from the ceiling. I sat on an elaborately decorated pillow on top of a wooden bench. I had something with basil in it, and a jalepeno margarita. Momola and I just talked and talked, and it was the kind of place where time and space don’t exist – it’s just you enjoying yourself with someone you love, and years later, the memory will also escape space and time.

Travel Photo

Although this is a sort of stupid photo and I'm a bit embarrassed about that god-awful lip piercing, it does capture the feeling of one of my more vivid travel memories. The kind that wasn't so much fun at the time.

June 2006. Gill and I had been dating for almost a month when he suggested we go to the Strawberry Fair together. Cambridge is less than an hour from Norwich by train, so it would be an inexpensive, easy day trip. On the day of the fair, the typically temperamental English weather cooperated, so Gill and I both wore shorts and a t-shirt, and we each brought a sweatshirt.

The train journey to Cambridge was festive, even raucous. Gill had stopped in to the shop at the train station for cans of lager. We snagged a pair of much-coveted table seats, and then the seats filled around us, then people packed into the aisles around us, hands above heads holding on to anything stable. Groups of lads drank beer and sang drinking songs. Or football songs. I’m still not quite sure if there is a difference. Gill and I drank our lukewarm beer and giggled at nothing in particular. It was our first big outing together, and I was pretty sure he was officially my boyfriend.

The Strawberry Fair was much like the train journey there – lots of beer, lots of people, lots of noise. After watching a few sets of live music, a band of charming boys who couldn’t be older than fourteen, we wandered, drinking more, and were drawn to a tent thumping with hypnotic reggae beats.

“We have to dance,” said Gill. I was starting to get crowd-weary, but I have never turned down an opportunity to dance. It didn’t turn out very well for me. A hundred, two hundred sweaty people gyrated, but there was no space. I need at least six square feet to myself to properly get my groove on. Otherwise my flailing arms are likely to hit someone and cause trouble. It’s happened before. So I stood, squashed, paralyzed, and a silent scream ripped through my head.

“I need to get out of here,” I yelled into Gill’s ear. He nodded, smiled, kept dancing.

“No, I’m fucking serious,” I said. “I’m freaking out. I have to go.”

Gill had the best intentions, and he did begin to follow me as I steamed through the packed-in group, blended together into a quilt of multi-coloured skin, dreadlocks, loose-fitting shirts. But then Gill sort of forgot to follow me. He told me later that he was transported back to his University days in Leeds, where he hung out with a group of Rastas. But really, he was just quite drunk, and he wanted to dance, and he didn’t want to leave the tent.

Once I was outside and in a less crowded area, I started to relax, and the panic subsided. And then I noticed Gill hadn’t followed me. I sat down about thirty metres away from the tent, and I kept an eye out for Gill. He would realise I wasn’t there. Any minute, he’d realise.

Afternoon turned into evening, which turned into late evening, and then it became dark. The mood of the festival turned from drunk, to quite drunk. A German guy tried to hit on me, but found himself distracted and confused when he kept spilling beer from his plastic cup. He left for a refill. Gill was still MIA. I knew the best bet was to stay in one place, and he’d eventually find me.

And then, at around ten pm, Gill appeared in front of me. He was near tears with worry. Apparently he’d left the tent an hour or so after I had, and had been looking for me since. As we hugged each other, our relief crescendoed, then faded away.

“What time is it?” asked Gill. Ten. We’d missed the last train to Norwich. It would have costed over £100 to get a taxi, and neither of us could afford that. Neither could we afford a B&B, which didn’t matter anyway because all hotels and B&B’s in Cambridge are at full capacity during Strawberry Fair.

The mood of the festival changed again. No longer ‘quite drunk’: now, the lurkers were more ominous. As Gill and I stood considering our options, a man came up behind us, put an arm around each of us, and greeted us like long-lost friends. I gave Gill a look, and he shrugged – he didn’t know this man.

“So, my good friends, where are you from?” he said.

Gill played the part with enthusiasm. “I’m from Middlesbrough, mate. But not for years – I got the hell out as soon as I could.”

I tried to stay quiet. No such luck.

“And what about you, love?”

“Oh, I’m from the U.S…”

His smile dropped. He turned to Gill.

“What the fuck, man. You should fucking know better than to date an American.”

Gill tried to laugh, shrug it off. But the guy was getting really wound up. Yelling, waving his arms. He was definitely ‘on something’.

“We’re leaving,” Gill said. The guy started to follow us, but we walked towards a bobby, and the guy fell back into the shadows.

It was clear that Gill and I needed to find a good hiding spot, where no one would mess with us. We walked across the park, found an overgrown patch of field, and burrowed in. We cuddled for warmth, but spent the night shivering, the cold damp night seeping into our bones. Midway through the night, our misery hit a point where it was suddenly hysterical. That’s when Gill took the picture of me. Our first big outing together and there we were, freezing, hiding in weeds, sleeping in the park. What could be more romantic?

Broccoli and Me

Hello All!

I was invited to this blogging network by the one-and-only Momola, otherwise known as Donna. I’ve lived in England for three years. I’m currently doing time in admin at the University of East Anglia. At the moment, my main ambition is to start the MA Creative Writing (Prose Fiction) programme in 2009. I spend too much time feeding my karate addiction, but when my fingers can take it I spend my time working on my novel-in-progress, or procrastinating with these lovely things called blogs.

I do, indeed, have a great fondness for broccoli. Broccoli is fun to say, fun to eat, and even fun to sprout. I’m not exactly obsessed with broccoli, but let’s just say it’s one of those things that makes me inexplicably happy.

Oh, and you may have guessed - my name is Lori.